


Under the Stars at Uppsala

by jaziru



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Bird Business, Culture Shock, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing Games, Long Strange Trips, Multi, NEVER let your Athelstan wander the forest alone, One Big Polyam Family, Public Nudity, Queer Themes, Queerplatonic Helga/Athelstan, Recovering Monk, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27928138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaziru/pseuds/jaziru
Summary: Athelstan eats some funny mushrooms and wanders the mountainside forest, lost and seeking something important, only to find Floki and Helga.
Relationships: Floki/Helga/Athelstan
Comments: 14
Kudos: 12





	1. Stumbling Over the Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SylverLining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylverLining/gifts), [Deathstar510](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathstar510/gifts).



> This is my first posted fic! I hope y’all enjoy this little vignette of reimagined life in the Far North. More parts may follow, but I am not yet sure.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athelstan takes sacred fungi, hallucinates, gets lost, and is guided by a familiar friend.

Athelstan wanders through the frigid forest; he wonders. The light of the many fires in the darkness captivates him with its unnatural dance in so many places he cannot even begin to track them all. His mind has been so far from clear since he ate a goodish portion of the strange, awful-tasting fungi that had been pressed upon him by Rollo. But he has grown used to taking what is given to him since joining the Northmen against his will. Is it still against his will, though? He doesn’t think so. This is his home now; if not these mountainous temple grounds, then Kattegat, and especially among Ragnar’s household, for certain.

He has come to feel like part of the family, though he isn’t sure if he should tell anyone that. It might be best to keep it to himself, because who knows what might happen if he shows such tender vulnerability in a harsh and brutal land? Even within in the relative safety of Ragnar’s close-knit circle of kith and kin. What is this feeling sprouting in his heart at the thought of them all? _Love_ , he thinks. It’s love, something he knows he never would have experienced while wearing the robes and tonsure of the Christian monk he had once been.

His mind is drifting, wandering farther than his feet take him as he wends his way through the massive trees in this alpine forest. People all around are deep in revelry, some doing things that make him blush to the roots of his hair, even after all this time living in a society where sex is as natural and shameless as breathing. Will he _ever_ get over his bashfulness? The wind seems to whisper that it’s one of his more endearing qualities, and that makes him blush, too. Surely not. Not among these hulking warriors and their brave women. They value strength, utterly relentless viciousness in battle, loyalty; the music of shyness is so out of tune with those. He doesn’t think any of these Northmen know what it is to be shy.

Out of the darkness he hears the chimes ride the wind and it must be his imagination, because the unreality of the sound resolves into giggles, and that is a sound he knows well. It might be unsettling to some, but he finds it to be a warm and welcoming laugh. Floki must be nearby. Athelstan’s soft-lipped mouth quirks in a half-smile; the unusual man has intrigued him since their first meeting. What is he, exactly? A healer for certain, he had seen that for himself, but Floki is _more_ than that, he’s able to speak to the trees and see beyond the fixed lines of the material world into that great unknown plane of the spirits, and maybe even the Gods themselves. More than once, Athelstan has wondered about Floki’s innate connection to the Gods, wondered if they might forge their own connection, as similar conduits between the seen and unseen. He had, after all, been a monk and a scribe for the Christian god. Perhaps they would find a happy commonality there. Suddenly, fountaining from the depths of his hallucinating mind, there is nothing he wants more.

The fires whirl dizzily around him like veils of red-orange silk as he turns his head to the left and the right, squinting to search among the writhing groups of bodies scattered on the forested mountainside. He must be close, or he wouldn’t have heard it, and he would know that giggle anywhere. Now fixated on the happy sound, which is sometimes transmuted by the wind to become the chimes again, he looks for Floki’s familiar face near each wavering fire. Well, he’s definitely not in this nearest group of two pretty women and three tattooed men, their mostly naked bodies tangled together in a configuration athelstan never thought humanly possible. But it is well to remember that there are always new things that are possible, and he should not ever let himself forget this in his new life with the Northmen. He had long ago spoken his vow of chastity, but tonight it is... _much_ less important. His entire old world is much less important. He watches the group surreptitiously, privately amazed at the smooth limberness of the men’s beautiful bodies, then moves on, thinking it over with reddened cheeks. The giggle is still calling him. Athelstan is very nearly sure that Floki is giggling through the trees directly to him, calling to him in specific, and if that’s the case, he could be anywhere.

He moves on, stumbling on uneven ground and giving wide berth to the other groups of people once he ascertains with a glance that Floki is not among them. If only the fires were not so distracting! In the midst of his mind’s roiling interpretation of sight, they dazzle, they pull his attention away from the giggles, shifting to chimes, and back to giggles again. Athelstan trips over a thick root erupting from the earth and saves himself from falling only by grabbing onto the nearest tree, and there, the giggles return, intensified.

_Where are you going, priest? Listen, and come to me!_

Athelstan blinks, steadying himself for a moment and keeping his hands on the rough trunk of the tree for a dose of reality through the sense of touch. Yes, Floki is definitely using the trees to talk to him, and specifically him. Now why does that make such joy burble up from his heart? Best not to question it, he finally decides. Best to accept, and follow. Now with a clue, Athelstan continues on, moving from tree to tree, laying his hands on them each as if imparting a sacred blessing. The echoing giggles get louder and louder, superseding all other sound, and his lips part in a pleased and excited grin. He is getting closer, he feels it. A shining warmth starts in the center of his chest as a point of light, growing as it spreads throughout his body. He’s moving faster now, his feet more sure, like the wild goats they’d seen on their long journey to the sacred temple.

He throws himself at the next tree and puts his hands on the trunk, eager for a hint of that giggle he has come to depend upon in the wild dark, but this time hears nothing. His face falls in utter disappointment until he looks down and directly into the kohl-lined eyes of Floki, who grins widely when their eyes meet.

“You made it, priest!” he giggles. “Come, settle down with us. You looked _so_ lost out there.”

Athelstan blushes, glancing at Floki’s side and seeing his wife Helga lying partially wrapped in a dark woolen blanket, her beautiful breasts exposed to the cold. She smiles up at him, her expression coquettish and irresistible, and pats the narrow space between her and her husband.

“He-hello,” he stammers, glancing away from Helga’s chest and right into Floki’s _very_ knowing eyes.

The healer is grinning, showing his teeth. “Join us, priest,” he insists again. “There’s just enough room for one, yes, yes. They told me you needed us.” And Floki pats the enticing space, too.

Athelstan dithers for only a moment before he situates himself between the two of them, on his back with two people he’s thought of as family for some time now. It is warm in the nest created by their bodies, and he focuses hard to separate from his whirling, drugged mind and feel his own body. Helga is soft, accepting, voluptuous against him. He savors it because he’s never felt anything like a woman’s breasts and hips and thighs before. But then, he’s never felt anything like Floki’s body next to his, either; long, lanky, wiry with strength and alive with a mystical energy. He feels equally good. _Maybe better?_ Athelstan’s mind whispers. Yes, he thinks Floki feels better, in some way he doesn’t fully understand right now, but both of them together are extraordinarily... nice. He is finally getting warm on this mountain slope and, perhaps for the first time in a long time, he begins to relax.

Floki giggles, but this time it’s soft and gentle. “There you are,” he says, using one hand to stroke Athelstan’s wind-tossed curls. “Now rest, for it’s a big day tomorrow.”

His mind still spins through colors and scenes faster than he can perceive, but he knows his body is safe with family. Helga turns on her side and wraps an arm around his waist, snuggling into him, and he blushes, gently pushing himself closer to her without getting too far away from her husband. The blush intensifies when Floki brushes his forehead with a light, almost reverent kiss. Floki’s lips are softer than he ever imagined, and cool against his flaming red skin. Perhaps Floki and Helga will take his emotional color for firelight. But a glance into Floki’s eyes shows him that is not so. Floki has the knack of _knowing_ things, knowing people, knowing Athelstan.

“Don’t be afraid, priest,” coos Floki with a little out of tune giggle, and his long, careful fingers trace lines of fire along Athelstan’s fine cheekbones.

“I’m... I’m not,” Athelstan stammers. Fear? Maybe not, not now. But nervousness, though? That in bales. His pulse quickens.

“You’re safe here, do not worry,” Helga murmurs after another snuggle, the wind blowing through her pretty blonde hair.

With these words from Floki’s wife, his nervousness starts to dissipate, and in this warm nest an emotion brighter than happiness spawns in his whirling mind to take its place. He finds that he likes cuddling in a pile with Helga, and her nudity does not bother him as it might have before he’d been taken as a captive in Ragnar’s raid on his old monastery. But Floki is another matter, altogether. Where there is soothing warmth with her, there’s a raging inferno with him. What would be the harm in exploring that blaze? He firmly pushes away dour thoughts of sin; those are from his old life and what’s done is done. Now he is free to revel in the intense emotions called up by his new family and friends from Kattegat. It is like a gift from Freyja that he never, as a former Christian, expected to receive, and as with all divine gifts, he intends to accept this one with abandon.

He hears the chimes on the wind again, and in them he hears hymns of praise, but not for the Christian god. Not here, on this particular hallowed ground. This time, the chimes are ringing in the voices of the many Gods of the North, and they are all saying one thing to him: just be. Just be. Just let yourself _be_. Slowly, ever so slowly, Athelstan tilts his head toward Floki until it rests against his chest and he is aware of his rapid heartbeat. His mind latches onto the percussive rhythm, fixating on it as proof of life for this unusual Northman he has come to love.

The healer giggles in delight, pressing another kiss against his brow, and Athelstan blinks away his sudden tears. Despite being many, many long days away from Ragnar’s earldom down in Kattegat, despite still feeling lost in his new culture sometimes, and knowing that the morrow will bring the terrible sacrifices he dreads with his entire heart, all that matters for now is that he is wedged tightly, safe and warm, between Floki and Helga on this forbidding and sacred mountainside. For the moment, maybe for this moment alone, with Floki’s kiss on his forehead like a blessing, he feels as though all his trauma since his capture is finally fading away.

For a good portion of the night that follows, he and Floki invent and play kissing games while Helga settles into a peaceful sleep at their side, her arm still curved around Athelstan’s middle. Has he ever felt so fulfilled, so at peace? No, not even deep in prayer in his previous life, which matters less and less with each dulcet kiss. This, he knows, is where he’s supposed to be.


	2. Soaring Through the Sky

At some point during the early hours of the morning, it is the eerie hooting of an owl that wakes Athelstan from his pleasant slumber, and attendant pleasant dreams. In them, he was walking the fields near Kattegat holding hands with Helga, both of them bedecked in spring flowers. The sun was shining despite the coolness of the day, and they were smiling at each other. It had been a beautiful dream, and a restful place for his body and soul to restore themselves. But now he is awake, and blinks once to get his bearings.

No, he’s not _home_ home, but at Uppsala, upon the awesome and terrible holy grounds of the Northmen. He is between Floki and Helga, whose head is resting on his left shoulder, face peacefully pressed into his torso as she sleeps. Her even breathing matches his heartbeat, creating a sense of soothing sameness. But to his right is Floki, and while he sleeps, his eyes move rapidly, and they are not closed all the way. No, the healer is seeing _things_ even when he rests.

 _It must be so tiring for him,_ Athelstan thinks with compassion, tentatively reaching a hand up toward Floki’s. It is resting on Athelstan’s chest next to Helga’s face. He gasps when Floki grabs his creeping wrist with a muttered oath in the Northmen’s language.

“What is it that you want, priest?” comes Floki’s voice in the night. “More... kissing games?” The fires have burned low, so little can be seen but shadow and the hint of light, and while there is murmuring in the distance, Athelstan cannot make it out.

The former monk swallows, then firms up his jaw to speak. “M-Maybe. I woke up, I don’t know why. Maybe someone needed me.” He looks into Floki’s eyes, just shadows under the protrusion of his brow.

Floki giggles. “And maybe someone else needed _me_ ,” he croons softly.

Athelstan’s mouth is left open, and he closes it hastily, feeling the color rush into his cheeks. He’s tried to grow a beard after the fashion of his new Northern kin, and he’s not done too badly, but it has taken time, for he is only a boy in comparison to many of the warriors that now take their rest on this mountainside.

Floki’s sure finger finds his mouth, closing Athelstan’s lips and quickening his pulse. It wasn’t so long ago that his heart was racing much faster, though the drug has not completely passed and he cannot measure how much time has passed since they had been kissing each other with unrestrained passion. And sometimes with playful affection, with nose rubs and earnest forehead presses that make Athelstan blush even darker. He’s so glad for the dark, so Floki cannot see how red he is from feeling.

But when Floki’s finger caresses his side of his face, he must be aware of the heat. The air is too cool for him to be not aware, not with _his_ level of perception. Floki giggles knowingly, placing the back of his hand against Athelstan’s cheek and stroking him that way. The love of his old brothers at the monastery had never come close to equaling what he feels for the people who now comprise his family: Ragnar, Lagertha, Torstein, Floki, Helga. They are the core, and Athelstan adores their children as if they are his own, another thing he never thought he’d feel in life.

Floki clears his throat and taps his cheek twice, hard, bringing him out of his reverie. His glazed-over eyes focus on the shadows beneath Floki’s brow again and he feels a renegade smile take over his mouth. “Maybe I did need you, Floki,” Athelstan whispers, so as not to disturb Helga, still breathing regularly on his shoulder. So far, they have not disturbed her. Good. She deserves her rest. But he deserves more time with Floki.

“Were you having a bad dream?” asks Floki. “Could be the medicine.” He giggles.

“N-no, it’s not that, not re-really,” Athelstan stammers in the language of the North. “I guess I just... missed you?” And then he closes his eyes, because what kind of admission is _that_? Talk about vulnerability!

Floki’s fingers turn gentle again on his face. “I know, priest,” he chirps softly. “I could hear it in my own dream, yes, your need, you, and you, and you, so now we’re here, you and I. Now what?”

Athelstan’s eyes catch the last bit of the light from the coals. And even though he cannot see Floki’s eyes in their entirety he feels them burning into his own, with more light, more heat than the coals. Much more the full fire that had made them, the fire beneath the tree that had helped him find his family in the first place.

The chimes are sweet music above them as they meet in a singular soft, closed mouth kiss. Athelstan still cannot hardly believe that a mighty Northern warrior like Floki has such soft, adept lips. How can it be possible? He must know of balms or other magic healing salves. But he can hardly think of such remedies while Floki devastates him with his kiss. Easily, so easily, he yields before the healer, effortlessly pressed back against the scant pillow of the thin woolen blanket wrapped around all of them.

“Fly with me, priest,” Floki giggles in his strange, singular cadence, and Athelstan closes his eyes, prepared to go and do whatever he requests.

They kiss, open and hot and hungry, and Athelstan flies up and up, but he is not alone. There is another entity with him, one who is sure and strong and capable, one who will not let him fall. They kiss, and as fire boils through his veins he knows he is safe in the arms of the healer. They kiss, and Athelstan discovers they are at once within their bodies supping on pleasure and gliding together through the sky beneath the stars at Uppsala.

_Fly with me, priest._

So Athelstan flies and discovers his wings are as black as the night above, and his body is small, sturdy, and perfectly suited for soaring through the chill breezes that drive the chimes below. He hasn’t the time for wondering at the change. And however strange this is, he is _not_ alone, he must remember that. A larger, more elaborate bird flies with him, and they are a mated pair as they dart in tandem between the trees. Instinctively, Athelstan knows Floki’s raven eyes are thickly lined with kohl, and are an unusual blue rather than pitch black as his own must be.

On the ground they kiss with unrestrained fervor and in the air they ride the wild wind together, dodging the tops of the great trees at the last second, cawing triumphantly at the near misses, too high up to disturb the humans below. Is Athelstan bird, or is he human? He thinks perhaps both, in this sacred moment with Floki. He feels warm arms claim him, a voracious mouth devouring his and spilling liquid heat along his tiniest nerves. At the same time, raven-Floki catches his eye in the sky, and their combined mirth sings in the same raucous voice as they flip and twist through trunks many times older than their grandfathers. 

Floki’s whiskers scratch Athelstan’s tender face, making him aware of his human body for a moment, long enough to wish he had some similar sensory input for the healer. But his curious little chuckle tells Athelstan not to worry about that, indeed, not to worry about anything. The one-time priest is fine as he is, he does not need to change at all for Floki to love him, to care for him, to kiss him until his toes curl in the leather of his boots. And he does not need to change to approach heights in the sky that are surely meant only for the Gods. Athelstan feels no fear, though, because Floki is with him, and together they rain down ink-dark feathers over the festival tableau below. 

The kissing becomes more involved and Athelstan is pressed into Helga’s welcoming softness. She doesn’t respond except to cuddle closer and make a soft noise in her sleep. Floki breaks to murmur at her and she quiets, hugging Athelstan to her chest. Athelstan is taken by his directness, his strength; has he not seen Floki, fearless in battle, risking his life at any and every turn? How could Athelstan ever doubt this strength that presses him into Helga’s sweet warmth? Yet he has seen Floki be exceedingly gentle with baby birds in the forest, rare herbs, his own daughter, the other children of Kattegat. 

Under the undeniable power of Floki’s kiss, Athelstan comes to understand that strength is a tool like any other in Floki’s hand, used when needed, forgotten when not. And Athelstan rather likes being pressed into Helga; perhaps more for Floki’s force than Helga’s softness, if he’s honest, though the healer’s wife is one of his closest friends and companions. He likes Floki taking the lead, too, perhaps even more. He feels like a baby bird, cradled in Floki’s sure palm; he feels like Floki’s full desire. 

They kiss deeply, their lips scribing a sacred language known to no one else, and they fly, floating along low chill winds as they blow through the alpine forest of Uppsala. Raven calls echo above the sleeping people gathered on the mountain slope; they are aware of neither bird nor man as they celebrate their own powerful ritual. The ravens spiral downward, and downward still, graceful with their wings extended to their fullest, until they fly into Floki and Athelstan at the base of one of the largest trees and disappear. 

Their kiss breaks, and they open their eyes, looking intensely at one another, breathing fast. Floki’s gaze is knowing, as it almost always is, but there is something gratified there that puts color in Athelstan’s cheeks. It is not bashful color, though. It is the color of pride. _Athelstan_ did that, _he_ put that particular look in Floki’s eyes. If he has done nothing else on this holy mountain, he did that for sure and for true. 

“Do you think, now, that you are ready to sleep again, priest?” asks Floki, lifting his eyebrows. Now settled, his lined eyes are once again obscured by shadow. 

“Yes,” murmurs Athelstan, licking his lips for that last taste of mint and mystery. 

“Then sleep.” 

Athelstan doesn’t feel like he can argue with that, so he snuggles his head down on Floki’s chest beneath his chin, and Floki’s hand slides up his chin to his cheek and rests there. Bliss blooms in Athelstan’s chest as he drifts off again, safe within the embrace of his Northman and his wonderful wife. 

They are asleep again within moments. A few dark feathers on their blanket are ruffled by the wind, and blow away into the night. 


End file.
